Returned
by GingeredFangirl
Summary: Set straight after (and may include some spoilers for) S3X03. Moriarty's return puts everyone Sherlock holds close in danger, and he's out for revenge. Completely canon. Rated T 'cause I'm paranoid.
1. Did you miss me?

**Hey everyone! Don't hate, please, I tried to make this completely canon. It's also my first Sherlock fic, so let's see how this goes...**

**If you've seen any of my stories before, you'll know that I write best in the PJO/HoO series, and I've never tried writing from a TV or film series before :/ ah, well**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em>Did you miss me?<em>

Someone had obviously left the telly on in the locker room. Molly rolled her eyes and tried to concentrate on the aged man in front of her. _Heart attack…no, possible cardiac arrest…_

_Did you miss me?_

It was a strange advert, with the voice going high, like they'd breathed in helium, and then incredibly deep. Probably for some horror film. A ghost from the past, perhaps.

_Did you miss me?_

In fact, it sounded like a film had gotten stuck. She should really turn it off; it was grating on her nerves.

_Did you miss me?_

Sighing, Molly let the old man's eye slip shut again and wandered down the corridor. She wondered where Sherlock was now. John had called her the other day to tell her that Mycroft had exiled his brother after the shooting of Charles Magnussen, the corporate billionaire, and that none of them could expect to see him again.

_Did you miss me?_

Molly turned into the locker room and froze.

_Did you miss me?_

There, on the screen, was a face she'd hoped never to see again. His dark hair was slicked back perfectly, as if nothing had ever happened. A smarmy smirk was plastered across his face, and his mouth moved up and down like a bad animation.

A ghost from the past, all right.

She took a breath. Then another, and another. The air couldn't seem to reach her lungs. She felt nausea rush up from the pit of her stomach and dizziness swirling from the centre of her head. This couldn't be true.

Her fingers started to tingle, and she realized how hard she'd been gripping the fabric of her lab coat. She knew why he was back. He had cheated death, somehow, to get his revenge on Sherlock for cheating death and still managing to save his friends. But not just Sherlock. No. Anyone who had helped him with the deception would be a target too.

That meant all of Sherlock's homeless workers, and Mycroft, and…_her_.

Turning, she stumbled blindly to her locker, reaching for her phone and pulling up her contacts. Scrolling down with fumbling fingers, she found his number, and dialed it. _Sherlock_.

It went to voicemail, saying his phone was busy. Molly shook her head to clear her thoughts and called Greg instead.

"Molly! You okay?"

"No, no." She'd only just realized she was sobbing. "Turn on your TV, Greg, it's…it's awful. H-he's back."

"I know, I was watching the football."

"W-we need Sherlock."

"You heard what John said-"

Her temper flared up. "Call John! Get him to talk to Mycroft. I don't care what he's done, he-"

"Calm down, it might not even be him. Probably just some shoddy animation."

"That managed to hack every single television in England?"

There was a pause. "I'll – oh, just a sec."

"What?"

"Text."

Molly's own phone buzzed at her ear. Pulling it away from her head, she checked it.

_Just touched down. Back in England. Sentence rescinded on grounds of major crisis. SH._ He must have sent that round to everyone, but a second text came through a moment later. _Don't worry, Molly. I will make sure he doesn't hurt you. You're safe. Sherlock._

She couldn't help but smile. Despite all the history between them, she knew Sherlock would always protect her. He may have seemed like a pompous cock all the time, but that hid a heart as warm as anyone's, that would never allow any one of his friends to be hurt. In fact, he had faked his own death to protect them.

"Greg? Are you still there?"

"Right here. Did you just get-?"

"Yes. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

"Molly-"

"I should probably get back to work. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Molly-"

"Give John a call. He has to be feeling a bit-"

"_Molly_."

"Yes?"

"It's a Saturday, Moll. Go home, relax a bit. _Calm down_."

"I-I will, in a bit."

"Good. And, well, don't worry too much. I know I feel a lot better now."

"Yes, me too. Thank you, Greg."

The TV was still on, playing his face. _Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

How had he done it? There had been no body on the rooftop, and Sherlock hadn't stuck around long enough to give a detailed account of what had happened, only that he had 'shot himself in the mouth'.

Molly shook her head again and flipped the thing off at the socket. Whatever happened, something big was coming. Something Sherlock had promised to protect her from, but something she knew she would end up getting caught up in anyway. Even worse, she knew what that something was. It would be the final showdown between Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty.

* * *

><p><strong>How was that, then? Please review, it took me ages!<strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

**-Ciara**


	2. Brother, dear

**Liiiittle bit of a one-sided chapter here…ah, well. I don't know about you, but I prefer a more caring version of Mycroft, however much he tries to hide it. We all saw it right at the end of His Last Vow, I think, after Sherlock shot Magnussen. I also like the idea of insight into his mind, as the show does often show Sherlock deducing and solving things (although pissed Sherlock was the best thing ever :'D) but never really Mycroft.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Mycroft's chauffeur handed him his phone from the front seat of the car. The government official answered it.<p>

"Mr. Holmes?" The voice was quiet, calm and filled with authority, but there was a slight hint of tension. There always was when she called him; it only happened in times of crisis.

"Ah, Lady Smallwood," Mycroft leaned back in his leather seat, giving up trying to catch the last glimpses of his brother's jet. "What can I do for you?"

"Has your brother's plane left yet?"

"Yes, madam, he's safely out of the country."

"Bring him back."

"Excuse me?"

"Bring him back, man. Do it now!"

"May I be so bold as to enquire a reason for this change of heart?"

"Moriarty."

"Excuse me?" Mycroft blinked several times, unable to believe what he had just heard.

"Professor James Moriarty. Somehow he's put a loop of his face on every television in the nation."

"But that's not possible," Mycroft opened the car door, allowing the crisp morning air to weave around his face and clear his thoughts. "That is simply not possible." He stepped outside, staring into the anxious faces of John and Mary Watson. Mary, of course, suspected where Sherlock was being taken and was in turmoil, trying to decide whether she should tell John or not.

Even as Mycroft said the words, he knew they couldn't be true. The lady would never joke about something like this. He shook his head, running his inhumanly quick mind through all the implications of what he had just been told.

First and foremost, of course, there was Sherlock. Despite his standoffish air, Mycroft really did care for his brother. Sending him away to his probable death was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but the alternative would have been seeing Sherlock dragged through the mud in court, followed by a lengthy jail sentence.

Then there was anyone remotely close to Sherlock. Moriarty had underestimated Sherlock's emotions last time by only targeting his landlady, the inspector, and John, thus allowing Sherlock to ask his brother and Molly for help in his feigned death. Mycroft could see the criminal mastermind would not make the same mistake this time around.

Which meant that Molly Hooper was in danger, and he himself was, too. Moriarty would be looking for revenge, not only on Sherlock for cheating death and still managing to save his friends, but also on those who had helped him to do so.

_No,_ Mycroft chided himself. _You're flattering yourself._ Moriarty had taken the trouble to broadcast to every television in Britain. He wanted people to know he was coming. He was planning something far bigger than just revenge on Sherlock Holmes, although that would no doubt be part of his grand scheme.

And what of the criminal network that Sherlock had spent two years supposedly dissolving? They had both made the massive mistake of assuming that Moriarty was dead, and that his organization would be headless and scrambling. Mycroft began to get a nasty feeling that Sherlock's torture in Serbia had only been scratching the tip of the iceberg.

Just thinking of that made him wince internally. Every thud, every groan from his brother had pierced straight through his heart. Sherlock had thought he was enjoying it, but, quite on the contrary, Mycroft had been frozen in place, afraid to say a word in case it came out as screaming his little brother's name. He often wondered why he felt like that, when he hadn't in close to twenty-five years. He supposed it was the steady thawing of Sherlock's heart that opened up his own.

Sherlock, though, was far too protective of his friends. So much so, he had predicted the direction of Moriarty's plan two weeks in advance and arrived at Mycroft's office in the dead of night, begging for help. _Begging to his brother._ But, for Sherlock, anything was preferable to watching his friends die on his account. He would even fake his own death and disappear for two years, as long as they were safe.

But there were new people to threaten this time, too. Mary Watson and her unborn child could become prime targets. Their parents were gradually becoming closer to them, something both brothers had tried to shut out for precisely this reason. It would not be unlike James Moriarty to take a leaf from Magnussen's book.

Mycroft shook his head again to clear it, hanging up the phone. This had all flashed through his mind in the split second before John Watson had read his face and realised something was wrong.

"What's happened?"

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for all the follows and faves I have already, it's like insane! I never really expected a response this good, so thank you, Sherlock fandom.<strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

_**-Ciara**_


	3. Who needs me this time?

**Hey guys, sorry for the long wait! School kind of takes over your life -_- anyway, here's a chapter, in Sherlock's POV at last. And I know I still haven't gotten out of the last episode of series 3, but the next chapter will, promise :)**

**And yes, as you could probably tell from my last chapter and this one, I like the idea of more caring Holmes brothers.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Sherlock had deliberately looked away as the plane had whistled down the runway and lifted into the air. He hadn't wanted to see John and Mary standing there to see him off, John blissfully unaware that they would never speak again. There would be no miraculous resurrection this time for Sherlock Holmes.<p>

Saying goodbye had been the hardest. Trying not to let slip what was going to happen to him, trying to be cheerful. In the end, he had offered his hand and then ducked quickly inside the jet, trying not to let John see the tears stinging his eyes. He wasn't afraid of what was going to happen to him. No, he had been ready to die for a long time. He was more afraid of the impact it could have on John.

All the time Sherlock had been away, he hadn't even fathomed just how hard he had made John's life. He'd literally put his friend through two years of hell, only to pop up like nothing had changed, interrupt his attempted marriage proposal with French vintages and make fun of his moustache.

And now he was heading back to Eastern Europe, Bosnia to be exact, only a hundred miles away from his dingy little cell in the middle of nowhere with the iron manacles set into the concrete wall and a large Serbian man hefting a lead pipe.

The scars on his back twinged at the mere memory. He knew he would have those marks for life now, being as stubborn as he was and refusing to go to the hospital. His ribs had healed by themselves, but the deep cuts and welts would remain until his dying day.

Which may not be too far in the future.

Sherlock felt tears prick at his eyes again and swallowed, hard. Now he was breaking his last vow; he was leaving John and Mary all alone, with their first child about to be born, and no idea that he wouldn't be returning. Well, Mary suspected. There had been something in the bittersweet smile, or the sadness in her eyes. But he knew she wouldn't tell John. After all they'd been through in the past several months, she wouldn't want to risk hurting him any more than she already had.

The satellite phone rang from the front of the plane and Sherlock's escort/companion/security guard/'friend' heaved himself up to answer. _Friend_. How laughable. As if this man could ever live up to the level of compassion, companionship and forgiveness that John, Molly and Greg, among others, had consistently offered him. All those people…he would never see them again. He bit down on his fist to stifle a sob.

"Sir?" Sherlock's 'friend' was back. "It's your brother."

Frowning, Sherlock took the call, calling back his usual protective barrier of isolation. "Mycroft."

"Hello, little brother," Mycroft sounded slightly rattled, but did his best to conceal it. "How's the exile going?"

Sherlock snorted, glad his customary snide humour was back up and running. "I've only been gone four minutes."

"Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson." This was said with the air of a magician about to unveil his greatest trick yet. Sherlock blinked several times, seeing it even as it came. "As it turns out, you're needed."

A maelstrom of emotions flew through Sherlock's mind. Relief, but also a hint of deprivation. Not for the first time, he'd been ready to die. But he was going back to England! Back to John, Mary, Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, back to his flat, back home. In the end, he settled for frustration.

"Oh, for God's sake, make up your mind!" he snapped, before adding sourly, "Who needs me this time?"

Mycroft drew a breath before responding, "England."

"What?"

"I'll explain when you land, brother dear." The phone hummed slightly, indicating the conversation was over.

* * *

><p><strong>How was that, then? Please review, these take me ages to write! Anyone else who writes Sherlock fanfics must understand that it's far harder to write characters from TV or film than characters that are already in books.<strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

**-****_Ciara_**


	4. Hello boys!

**Hi guys! Sorry for the long wait, etc. but here's another chapter. You can probably tell that Mycroft and Molly are going to be fairly important in this story, as I assume it was mainly them who helped Sherlock fake his death the last time around. Old characters are going to be brought back again, and of course, the Watson's child will be born.**

**Thanks for all the follows and favourites I've had so far, it's mad! You guys are all amazeballs :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat deep in his armchair, glaring over steepled fingers at the wall opposite him. More importantly, at John's empty chair. It had been a month since Sherlock's short exile and John, although initially relieved, was now frantic with preparations for his coming child.<p>

The several awkward months when he and Mary had not been talking had left them with much to do in the way of sorting out a room in their small semi. Sherlock envisaged the long months where John would focus on nothing but his family, and missed him already.

Also, there was the subject of Moriarty. He would no doubt be searching for revenge, although Mycroft was convinced he was out for something bigger. Plastering his face across the country was proof of that, and it had provided Mycroft with the excuse he needed to rescue his brother. The courts and press had been taken care of, having been fed a story that Magnussen was shot by an unknown assassin, possibly sent by one of the many people that, it was now revealed, he had blackmailed.

Looking back on it, he didn't regret shooting the man at all. As if he could even be considered a man. _A shark_, he remembered telling John a couple of months ago. Yes, that was it. Not just with those dead eyes, but how he survived, preying on the vulnerable, finding a weak spot. It was despicable. Once Magnussen had revealed the vaults were nonexistent, Sherlock had known he had no choice but to kill him. So he had stood back and watched Magnussen flick John's face, over and over again, for his own sadistic entertainment, John's every flinch reminding him of his own torture in Serbia.

That had been well worth it, though, or so he had thought. If Moriarty had truly cheated death as well as he himself had, it would all have been for nothing. Would James have sat back and watched him destroy a lifetime's work? Sherlock suspected not, but he was so sure that he had followed the trail right back to its source.

Mrs. Hudson's footsteps rang sharply on the steps, and she entered with the usual morning tea. "Morning, Sherlock."

"I see you've brought the tea up again. There's no need, really, it usually just arrives."

"Some day very soon, young man, I will share a few choice words with your mother," she muttered darkly over the teapot, before making a hasty retreat. She was only too aware of Sherlock's foul moods.

Sherlock growled at the empty chair in frustration. _Why do you have to be empty? In fact, how dare you be empty? _His phone vibrated in his breast pocket, thankfully distracting him from a possibly dangerous vendetta against an inanimate object. It was only Mycroft, though, checking in every few hours as they'd agreed. Moriarty may have his sights set on England, but Sherlock was convinced he would get revenge one way or another. Even with his brother, he wasn't taking any risks.

The door opened downstairs. Sherlock listened for a second to the footsteps on the stairs and the quick greeting called out to Mrs. Hudson before relaxing. It was only John.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"Do you really have to do that?"

"Do…do what?" He was obviously taken aback by his friend's abruptness, but Sherlock still wasn't over the audacity of that chair.

"Pretend to be cheerful."

"I…am cheerful, Sherlock."

"Your clothes are creased; you've clearly slept in them. You have bags underneath your eyes and lines on your forehead. Look, there you go; you're yawning. I suspect that your minute brain can't process anything but the need to sleep at the moment. This baby thing is putting years on you, and it's not even here yet." John blinked, and Sherlock realised he'd been too harsh. "Point is, you look shattered. Coffee?" He leapt up and headed for the kitchen, trying to ignore the look of shock on John's face.

"Please." They stood in awkward silence for a moment before Sherlock decided to speak again.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"For…deducing you like that. I am aware you don't like it, yet I still do it. Probably some guilty pleasure thing; you know how I am." Sherlock noticed he was babbling and forced his mouth shut.

"Okay."

"Okay? Okay what? You're still annoyed; I can see it. What did I do? Is it the coffee?"

"No."

"What then?"

"Maybe the fact you called my child a _thing_?"

"What? No, I didn't. I…oh." Sherlock winced inwardly. "No, I-I meant the whole debacle, you know, trying to sort out the house, the bedroom, everything…" Hos voice trailed away.

"It's fine."

"No, it clearly isn't. I'm sorry. And _is _it the coffee?"

"No, really, it's fine, Sherlock. True, your coffee making skills haven't improved since the _last_ time you tried to apologise to me, but no. I can't stay angry at you for long."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "Really? Why not?"

John shook his head, grinning. "Because you're my friend, Sherlock. My _best_ friend. I-"

He was interrupted by the sound of the door opening beneath them. Sherlock broke eye contact, immediately on high alert. "Who was that?"

"Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock whirled around, dancing around the room, his dressing gown swirling around him, searching for the answer in his brain. _You know this, you know this, YOU KNOW THIS. _"No, no, she hasn't gone out. Someone with a key, someone who's been here before. Someone who-"

A small figure appeared in the doorway, hands behind his back, black hair slicked back and grinning all over his face. "Hello, boys."

* * *

><p><strong>How was that, then? It really gets going in the next few chapters, promise!<strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

**_•*≈Ciara≈*•_**


	5. Speak of the devil

**I am sososososososososososo sorry that this is really short. It's more of a character study, just like the Mycroft chapter, and filling in for Molly's two years and how she felt when Sherlock returned…yeah, just filling in the gaps in Molly's story, because there're a lot of them. **_(Feel free to pelt me with hard objects :(…) _**So yeah, sorry, about this. :/**

**But please, enjoy all the same!**

* * *

><p>Molly was the last one in the lab, as usual. She always tried to work as late as possible, to take everything off her mind that had happened lately.<p>

Of course, there was Moriarty's return. If he even had. They were all shaken up by the apparition on the TV, but so far, nothing. It was leading Molly to question whether it had been a hoax or not. John, of course, was intensely relieved; it had provided Mycroft with the finest of fine threads to reach out and pluck his brother from the jaws of death.

Speaking of Sherlock, she hadn't heard a thing from him since that text she had had nearly a month ago. It comforted her to know that he had thought of her, and she strongly suspected that he had commissioned some of Mycroft's agents to watch her, but she wanted to talk to him, face to face, and find out what he knew.

Shaking her head, she locked the examination room and wandered through the department, flipping off lights as she went. Nothing could be the same again, but then it never was with Sherlock around.

And of course, there was the breakup with Tom. For two years, she'd known Sherlock was alive, but faced with John's grief, she'd almost let herself believe he really was gone. So she had allowed herself to move on, to get engaged and to forget about Sherlock. But, being Sherlock, he didn't like being forgotten.

He'd arrived in her locker room sporting a bloody nose, after a harrowing night out with John and Mary. In that moment, Molly saw, as John must have, the comforting future she had built for herself crumbling around her ears, and over the next few months, she felt herself and Tom gradually drifting apart more and more.

The wedding had been one of the final straws. _Meat dagger?_ Molly shook her head again, this time in amused wonder. After that, Tom must have noticed her feelings for him lessening as time went on. Eventually, he offered to break the engagement, not because he felt any less for her, but because he knew she could never be as happy as she had been only a few months ago. She'd accepted his offer with gratitude, and they were still good friends.

Her phone beeped from her locker as she closed the last door. Picking it up, she grinned. _Speak of the devil._ It was Tom, wondering if she wanted to meet up that evening. They were still pretty close. A few seconds later a second message arrived, suggesting a little coffee shop on the Marylebone Road, not far from where Sherlock had first exploded back into John's life over a year ago.

_Sure_, she sent back. Why not? For one day, she wanted to escape from the constant danger and darkness that Sherlock brought with him wherever he went. She wanted to have a few happy glimpses of her old life that had collapsed the moment Sherlock returned. Somehow, John had managed to keep his real, even with the discovery of Mary's secret. Together they had ridden out the storm.

Molly sighed. Perhaps that was what true love was. Was she cursed never to find it?

* * *

><p><strong>Again, sorry it was so short! Next chapter, Moriarty :) *cackles and rubs hands* And was it just me who thought there was something weird about Tom? <strong>(_Hint_ _hint)_…..**:)**

**Thanks for reading!**

**•*~****_Ciara~*•–_**


	6. Who lives in a house like this?

**The idea for the first part of this chapter, when Moriarty is walking around the room and commenting on everything, I got from a video clip on the BBC. Go to the BBC Sherlock page, and there's a link to 'John's blog'. Scroll down a bit and find the entry called 'Hello boys!. The video there is the funniest thing - I literally died laughing :'D**

**Sorry for taking so long with updating, and also:**

**Dear 'Guest',**

**No, I'm not going to write more just because you tell me. If you're going to be so pathetic and hide behind Internet anonymity, that's your choice, but don't start being an arsehole just because you can. You've clearly never written anything in your life before - often the chapters write themselves and you can't control how long or short they are without ruining them.**

**Sincerely, Ciara**

**Aaaaand…DISCLAIMER:** (I always forget this) ** I don't own Sherlock. Killing fangirls all over the world is the pleasure of Steven Moffat and Mark Gattiss **(a.k.a Mycroft ;)) **co-creators of Sherlock.**

* * *

><p>He stood frozen. This could not be happening. How on earth had Moriarty managed to open the door of 221B? He tensed, expecting at any moment to be shot, or for Sherlock to be shot, but Moriarty seemed in no hurry. He traipsed around the flat, casting a cynical eye over everything.<p>

"Who lives in a house like this? God, look at the wallpaper." He wandered around, muttering under his breath at everything. "How clean is your house?"

He shrugged, turning to face them. "So, here we are. Sherlock Holmes HQ." He picked up an early version of Sherlock's waltz to John and Mary, before throwing it back down again. "…too many notes."

The criminal mastermind tutted, noticing the knife Sherlock had embedded in some papers on the mantelpiece. "Temper, temper, temper…you put headphones on a goat…God…hmmm, smell of baking…apple pie…books, books, books…"

He stopped at the skull on the left-hand side of the fireplace. "A _skull_? I wonder what your _skull_ would look like on my wall…boring, boring, boring…" He saw the skull print across the room. "More skulls, more skulls…oh, how the hours must fly by…" He picked up a numbered Rubik's cube, tossing it in the air and catching it again.

John watched all of this in a sort of detached state, not allowing the dreadful fear to worm itself inside his brain. Sherlock, however, was expressionless, merely arching an eyebrow when Moriarty turned to face them again. "Finished?"

"Why, yes, thank you."

"Going to carve up another apple this time?"

"Not at all. Going to make me another God-awful cup of tea this time?"

"If you insist."

Sherlock marched to the kitchen, flipping on the kettle and humming to himself as though nothing was wrong. It took a moment for John to realise that Sherlock was only doing it for his benefit, and shook the daze off.

Three years ago, this man had threatened him to make Sherlock commit suicide, (or not, as the case may be) before apparently killing himself to ensure that there was no way out for the detective other than to jump.

Now he was back, putting everyone Sherlock held dear in danger once again. This time, for sure, he wouldn't be so stupid as to miss out Molly or Mycroft from his hit list. Mary would be in the firing line as well. _Oh Christ…_ Not that she couldn't handle herself, of course. Probably better than he himself could.

"You…you…" John tried to form a complete sentence. "How are you…how are you not dead?"

Moriarty chuckled, accepting a cup from Sherlock and plonking himself down in John's chair. "Didn't you ask your consultant detective the same question before you bashed his nose in?"

John said nothing.

"And did you ever get a straight answer?" He set the cup down as Sherlock sat opposite him, leaving John standing awkwardly in the middle. "What about you, Holmes? Any theories?"

"So far, nine." Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease, like this was something he was familiar with. _Have they done this before…?_

"Oh, that's good. That's very good." Moriarty shrugged. "So, I think we've both agreed neither of us are dead, right?"

"Still owe me a fall?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Nah, same trick twice? Bad for business. But never mind that." Moriarty's face hardened. "Shall we play a game of truth?"

Sherlock's eyebrows looked like they were trying to escape from his forehead. "Withholding…?"

"How we did it. I think that's fair. Let's figure it out for ourselves, right? I'll go first."

Moriarty leant forwards in his chair. Sherlock mirrored him, both of them resting their arms on their knees and clasping their hands, until both of them were locked in each other's gazes. John felt like an outsider, an intruder into this clash of great minds.

"First question, Holmes." Moriarty grinned, like he had the trump card of the pack the first time around. "How did you spend your two year _holiday_?"

Sherlock shifted, just slightly. "Well, I would've thought even you would know that, Jim. Dismantling your criminal network, of course."

"So you think, Holmes."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, Sherlock, do I really have to say it again? It's too easy! I laid a false trail especially for you, finishing in Serbia."

Sherlock jerked slightly as if the name meant something to him.

"If you'd stuck around long enough to notice, you would've seen that the trail was far from over. But no, brother dear rushed to the rescue. Of course, we filmed the whole week. It was pretty funny, actually."

Sherlock's face was impassive, but John knew as well as if he could read his mind that he was startled, at the very least. Moriarty, on the other hand, was the picture of animated amusement and excitement.

"Did you really think I'd sit back and let you destroy my life's work? Well, you did think I was dead. Pretty convincing, wasn't it? Much better than yours, but yours convinced the general public, which was all I wanted. They all believed it had pushed you over the edge. Of course, clever brother helped with the investigation and they found that I did create a false identity, after all. Sherlock Holmes was back on the map, but still 'dead', of course.

"So when you had the _nerve_ to reappear as if nothing had ever happened, I was mad. Very mad. But I bided my time, Sherlock. Besides, I still have the CCTV from all those restaurants. You weren't exactly well received, were you?" He chuckled again, standing and pacing round Sherlock's chair. John winced inside.

"Of course I couldn't let fly off to your death working for your country. How insufferably _noble_ of you! And I've always wanted to kill you myself. So, in the nick of time, I put my face on every screen in the country. Mycroft didn't need much persuading, did he? He really does care for his baby brother. Magnussen was right.

"You all seem convinced that I'm out for England. Nah. Sure, I'll take my revenge, Sherlock. And it will _hurt_; I'll make sure of that. You cheated. You didn't obey my rules. But I called you back from your exile just for this. I get to play with you and do what I want. You're _mine_. If not…well, you know what happens.

"Basically, I began a major crisis, all for you. You're welcome, by the way. Everyone else seems to think that I want the whole of England, but don't they know me? I opened any bank, any prison, even the Tower of London. But no. The only thing I want, the only thing I'll ever want now is _you._"

Both John and Sherlock were frozen in place. In stark contrast, Moriarty ambled around the flat, running his fingers through the dust on the bookshelves and whistling loudly. Eventually he turned to face them.

"I'll see you soon, boys," he drawled. "Don't get into much trouble, now."

* * *

><p><strong>How was that?<strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

**~•*Ciara*•~**


End file.
